Everything went well until he tried to lever himself over the lip of the shelf. The jutting spear point scraped against the rock. Stavut had to bend and twist in order to tumble onto the ledge. The area he found himself in was no bigger than a large bed. The roof was low, and there was certainly no space to use a spear. It took an age to squirm around and untie the blanket, pulling the weapon loose. ‘Gods, you are an idiot!’ he told himself.
Skilgannon moved past the dead officer, and knelt beside the wounded villager. Harad came alongside.
‘This is Kinyon,’ he said.
A flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a series of rolling thunderclaps. The skies opened and rain began to pour down on the burning village.
‘Help me get him inside,’ said Skilgannon. ‘Careful now — that wound might open further.’
With great care they lifted the burly villager, who groaned. His head sagged against Skilgannon’s shoulder and he tried to speak. ‘Stay quiet, man. Conserve your strength.’
Carrying him into his house they laid him on a table in the dining area. Skilgannon untied the leather apron the man wore, pulling it clear. He had been stabbed just below the heart, and he was bleeding profusely. Skilgannon took a lantern from the wall, and bade Harad hold it over the wound. There was a long tear to the skin, indicating the dagger blade had slid against a rib. There was no way of knowing how deep the wound was, but it had missed the heart, otherwise the villager would have died some time ago. There was no blood on his lips, and no major swelling around the wound itself. With luck the blade might also have missed the lungs, or only nicked them.
‘See if you can find some wine and honey,’ Skilgannon told Harad. The logger laid the lantern on the table, then moved off towards the kitchen. ‘Can you breathe deeply?’ Skilgannon asked Kinyon. The man gave the merest nod. ‘I think you might be lucky, though it probably doesn’t feel that way just at this moment. Do you possess needle and thread?’
‘Back room,’ whispered Kinyon. Skilgannon moved away to the small bedroom at the rear of the house, searching through drawers and cupboards. Finally he found a length of white thread and several needles. He also uncovered a pair of scissors. Taking a sheet from the bed he cut strips from it for bandages and returned to the dining room. Harad was beside Kinyon when he returned. Carefully Skilgannon stitched the long wound, then smeared honey over it. With Harad’s help he sat Kinyon upright and bandaged his chest. Lastly he poured wine over the area of the wound, watching as it seeped through the bandage. Kinyon’s face was grey. Skilgannon fetched a goblet and filled it with water.
‘Drink,’ he said. The villager sipped at it, then sank back.
Touching his fingers to the man’s throat Skilgannon felt his pulse. The heart was fluttering wildly, but this was as likely to be the result of shock and terror as of the wound itself. He and Harad helped Kinyon to his bed. Outside, the rain was lashing down in a torrent, thunder constantly rolling across the sky.
Once Kinyon was sleeping Skilgannon walked out into the dining room. Harad was sitting by the window, staring out into the darkness. Many of the house fires were beginning to fail, but there were still enough flames to illuminate the bodies on the ground outside.
‘Why did they kill these people?’ asked Harad. ‘What purpose did it serve?’
Skilgannon shrugged. ‘Fox in a henhouse.’
‘What?’
‘A fox gets into a henhouse. It doesn’t just kill to eat. It kills everything. An orgy of death. I don’t know why. Some men just like to kill. That officer was such a man. We shouldn’t stay here long. There are far more of those Joinings — Jiamads as you call them.’
‘We can’t leave Kinyon to them.’
‘He is not my responsibility.’
‘Then leave,’ snapped Harad. ‘I will defend him.’
Skilgannon laughed. ‘No, Harad, I will not leave. Kinyon may not be my responsibility, but you are.’
Harad turned and stared at the swordsman, his grey-blue eyes glittering. ‘I am no-one’s responsibility.’
‘Try to control your anger,’ advised Skilgannon. ‘I meant that you are my friend, and I do not desert my friends.’
Harad relaxed. ‘Will he live, do you think?’
‘I don’t know. He is strong.’
‘There was a lot of blood.’
‘Not really. A little blood goes a long way. I have bled worse than that, and recovered within days. It depends on whether the dagger pierced any vital organs. We will not know for a while.’
Harad rose from beside the window and walked back to the kitchen, returning with the remains of a pie. He sat quietly for a while eating. The storm continued into the night, and eventually all the fires went out. Skilgannon found the remains of a loaf, and a half a round of cheese, and he too ate. There was no conversation for some time, but the silence was comfortable. Several times the swordsman moved back into the bedroom, checking on Kinyon who was sleeping.
The rain eased away just before the dawn. Harad was dozing in a chair by the hearth. Skilgannon left the house and walked out into the open. The smell of smoke was still in the air. In the gathering light he walked down the main road, scanning the ground for tracks. He found the body of a Jiamad with a black-feathered shaft jutting from its skull. So, someone had put up a fight. Moving further on he came to rising ground. Here there were other tracks. With great care he examined them. Someone had come down from the high country, stopped, then turned and run back into the hills. A group of Jiamads had followed. The Jiamad tracks were large. The person they were chasing had small feet, like a child, but the length of the running stride showed it was no child. More likely it was a woman. He followed the tracks for a while. It was not easy. The pursuing Jiamads had run over the same ground, mostly obliterating the trail of the quarry. Here and there, however, Skilgannon found traces of human feet. Two sets of tracks.
Someone wearing boots, and the second person — the one with the small feet — wearing moccasins.
He did not want to venture too far and returned to Kinyon’s house. When he got back he found other people there, a small man with frightened eyes, and two weary women. They were sitting with Harad.
They, and some of the other villagers, had escaped into the woods to the east. Skilgannon moved past the group and into Kinyon’s bedroom. The sandy-haired man was awake, and his colour was better.
‘I thank you for your help,’ he said. ‘Have the beasts gone?’
‘For now. Do you know why they came?’
‘They were looking for Askari.’
‘Who is he?’
‘She,’ corrected Kinyon. ‘A young huntress who lives here.’
‘Ah! That explains the dead Jiamad shot by an arrow. Why did they want her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who was with her?’
‘A merchant named Stavut. Nice young man. He is very fond of her, though I think his hopes will be dashed. The lord Landis Kan takes a great personal interest in Askari. I think he wants her for himself.’
‘I take it she is beautiful.’
‘All women are, in my experience,’ said Kinyon, with a smile. ‘Did she escape them?’